


World Class Jacka**

by orphan_account



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How sweet it is to be stuck with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World Class Jacka**

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd! kind of a random pairing, but i thought it would be fun. a lot of the spanish is 1. my really rusty conjugating skills and 2. googling common phrases, so please excuse my mistakes. i took some liberties in the characterizations & the plot doesn't follow the current timeline in the show other than that it takes place during season two. please leave any comments for suggestions and otherwise.

It was too much of a pain in the ass-- everything. All of it. Fucking annoying. Like getting uprooted to help in some sort of batshit-crazy scheme to overthrow the government of a country he didn't even live in wasn't bad enough, Connor had also managed to take leave for a supply run only to return to find their location hollowed out and a note left from Miles and his niece stating a rendezvous point-- they would be hours ahead by now, tracking the culprits. Sebastian and Rachel had been rounded up in the tussle, and apparently, there just hadn't been time to waste.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face in frustration. If there were ever a way of saying 'no one cares about you', fuck you would have been much kinder to hear. And they knew he would show up, just like the jackass he was. He had no one else, nothing better than the thin promises of grandeur and a faulty bloodline to keep him clinging on to their band of misfits, adrift on a sinking raft.

He swung his bag to the ground, sitting down heavily next to it and watching the dry dirt settle down around it. It was a months journey north towards the town Miles had listed. There was always the off-chance of meeting before then, but he didn't know the routes like Miles did, or the US as it had been, streets and all. Half of his life had been spent in Mexico. He'd have to be on horseback to even hope.

It didn't matter. Not really, anyways. 

No one was out looking for him. No one suspected him of being banded to Monroe and his posse. What the fuck-- he'd take his time. Let Sebastian rot for a while. Let them all stew a bit as he looked around his native country and got familiar with the place. Immature? Maybe. But he had the right-- he was sure it was listed right under his title of 'The One Left Behind'. His bag was heavy with supplies, meant to feed five, and there was less to worry about being found if he traveled alone. 

Looking up at the sun, he sighed once more before standing again, swinging the heavy bag onto his back. It was midday, meaning he wouldn't make much, if any, headway before nightfall. He started along anyways, deeper into the forest and out of the small clearing he'd been in before. There were no promises that there wouldn't be more patriot vultures circling about later to pick at any remains, and he'd like to avoid being caught bleeding his feelings out.

\----

He'd been walking for five hours before his shadow disappeared in the dark, and it was no longer safe simply placing one foot in front of the other for fear of breaking an ankle. Connor slipped his bag off his back again, knowing it was time to make camp for the night. 

He pulled up some twigs and gathered a few branches before kindling a small fire to keep the chill off. His hand rifled in his backpack a moment before withdrawing with a bit of jerky, which he gnawed at, a hollow pit sitting heavily in his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. The silence was deafening, and he pushed himself closer to the small flame that burned in front of him to hear it's comforting crackling. He didn't like the dark tint his thoughts took on when they had nothing but themselves to reverberate and echo off of. It was the sort of thing that could drive a lonely man to madness.

Lost in his thoughts, he had begun to nod off when he heard the rustling of leaves behind him. Standing quickly, his head snapped to as his hand fumbled at his side for his gun, which he pulled from the holster, aiming and cocking it at the shadow half-hidden behind the nearby tree. The form didn't move. 

"I can see you, chingado. Come out with your hands up."

The shadows adjusted, and for a moment, Connor thought they wouldn't move, but he finally emerged into the dim light of from the fire. It was a man, roughly of a similar age to him, both hands raised above his head in surrender.

"If you have any weapons and would also like to keep your head, I'd suggest you lose them now."

"Look, I didn't mean to sneak up on you, I just--"

"Shut up and hand over your weapons. Now."

He was large and Connor was glad he was the one currently pointing the gun. He was fast on his feet, quick with the draw, but the angle the man held his head at and the set of his shoulders told him he was trained. He watched as he slowly reached around his back, sliding the gun he'd had tucked into the top of his pants out before slowly placing it on the ground in front of him.

"Look, if you'd just give me a second to explain--"

"No mames." He found his temper was stout and had him defaulting to the tongue he was more comfortable with. "How long have you been following me?" 

He wasn't trained for situations quite like this. He was used to a crowd with no hierarchy-- there was a certain poetry in killing a vagrant with no moral compass. No one would know they were gone asides from the one holding the blade. Which was why Connor found his current predicament concerning. Shoot? Don't shoot? The man could have easily gotten word back much earlier on and could be simply waiting on back up. He wasn't in uniform, but the rigid set of his shoulders threw him off. He swore quietly to himself in Spanish.

"Since the clearing-- but if you'd just let me explain, I--"

"Maleton. Son of a bitch!"

"I didn't follow you to attack you-- I followed you because I need your help. You know where those soldiers are heading." The man's words came out in a rush, a vicious scramble to save himself.

Connor paused, suddenly giving the man a once-over, mostly out of confusion. He supposed if it were a ruse, it had worked in buying him a few more seconds time. Those few seconds wouldn't really serve him any use, and would have served him less if Connor hadn't already been pre-occupied about whether or not he should kill the man in front of him.

"Why would I know where those soldiers are heading? Sounds like you talking out of your ass, bateador."

"Look, I saw those people in your group take off after those soldiers. I lost them in the woods...but I knew they left a note behind, so I doubled back and found you instead."

"No me importa, mosca muerta."

"Can you-- english, please?"

"Can you just cut the bullshit and get to the important part-- what great need do you have in finding those soldiers?"

"They have my father."

The man's nostrils flared and he took a breath in through his teeth, as though he were strained by something. Vexed by his current situation? Connor knew that couldn't be true. Someone with training would have been in a situation like this before, which left the inevitable feeling that the man was telling the truth. Or perhaps that he was baring himself at the mercy of a stranger. Or that Connor was terrible at reading people and he was just bursting with killing intent and was angry because he'd been ousted.

"And you want me to help you get him back, I suppose." 

"Yes."

"And what's in it for me?"

"Look-- we can work out a payment. Whatever you want. I have money. My father had money. I just need to get there and get my father, and us working together is my best bet."

Connor thought for a moment, a pause, his his eyes drifting up and down the man's form absently as he did. What he was saying was true, and what the man hadn't voiced was that they also stood a better chance getting there together. He'd avoided it on purpose-- pacify the angry man with the gun. How big an ego this man must have thought he had to have. It wasn't entirely false, though.

He lifted the gun from where it was aimed at the man's head, sliding it back into his holster.

"Siquete el corrienme. I'll take you there because we're both going in the same direction, but no promises beyond that. And I'll take first watch." He leaned down, grabbing the pistol from by the man's feet, waving it momentarily in font of him before tucking it into the back of his pants. 

"Por si la moscas." He smiled before heading back by the dwindling fire.

"My name's Jason. I don't speak spanish." His tone was annoyed. His expression was -- annoyed? Or maybe he was just that unpleasant to look at.

"Connor. And I figured as much. Saco el jugo." He smiled fleetingly at the man before sitting down heavily where he'd sat earlier. He didn't receive another reply.

He watched warily as Jason reached behind a nearby tree, grabbing the bag that was lodged there and pulling the mat that would serve as his bed from it. He unfurled it, and no more had his back hit the mat before his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep. Connor almost laughed at the man-- he was a damsel. He was almost wary about how unwary this man was, and the fleeting thought he'd had of simply abandoning the man while he slept remained just that-- fleeting and momentary. 

They stood a better chance, the two of them, even if he didn't fully buy the man's bag of bull. At least now the silence was companionable, if not slightly hostile instead of the ringing, constant pressure it had been earlier. He picked up the jerky he'd dropped in his haste to reach his gun and patted the dirt off of it before continuing to eat it, his mind wandering again, but his eyes annoyingly drifting the way of the sleeping man-- Jason.

He looked back into the fire instead, feeling it's warmth sharply push into his eyes. 

Before he'd even noticed, a few hours had passed. A hand pressed lightly on his shoulder, and he looked up with a jolt of surprise.

"My turn for watch." He was matter-of-fact, very stoic. Connor wasn't yet sure if he liked that about Jason. He didn't like a hard read, but he was very good at gleaning bits of information off of other people in their mannerisms, even when their mannerisms involved having none. He pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, rubbing the soreness from them before standing and stretching. He patted Jason on the shoulder vaguely as he passed.

"Right, yeah. Try not to kill me while I sleep, thanks." He flashed a lopsided and empty grin at the man before walking over towards his mat. He didn't glance back until he went to lay back, but was surprised when he found Jason's eyes on him, the look indiscernible.His eyes flicked away immediately, no panic, no readable, human emotion there before he frowned into the fire-- or perhaps that was just his natural face, again, Connor wasn't fully sure. He furrowed his brows for a moment, but didn't pause any longer on the odd look before drifting off to sleep. He did hope he wouldn't wake up dead, though.


End file.
